


Private Lessons with the Champion

by 0Rocky41_7



Series: Dancing Naked in the Moonlight [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Banter, F/M, Gen, Purple Hawke (Dragon Age), Rogue Hawke (Dragon Age), suggestive sparring
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:48:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22023607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: While the Knight-Comnmander’s out, the mages will play. Orsino invites Hawke to the Circle to spar with his apprentices to test their skills, but she’s looking for more of a challenge.
Relationships: Female Hawke/Orsino, Hawke/Orsino
Series: Dancing Naked in the Moonlight [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1511585
Kudos: 13





	Private Lessons with the Champion

**Author's Note:**

> There's no WAY the mages of Thedas go around with big ol' staves on their backs. Why not just wear a flashing sign that says "I'M A MAGE"? I assume they have various spells and tricks to shrink their staves to a more inconspicuous and convenient size.
> 
> See more about Hawke on her [tumblr tag.](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/tagged/theodora%20hawke)

Summer in Kirkwall was _oppressive_ —the sun glared down at the city with all the wrath of the violated Black City, and clouds of salty mist blew in from the Waking Sea, mixing with Kirkwall’s natural reek, turning the city into a miasma of foul vapors. Each year, the citizens of Kirkwall sweated enough to water a farmer’s field for the next year ‘round, and the number of murders soared to dizzying heights, much to the frenzied distress of the city guard.

Only the Circle of Magi remained relatively cool—its position away from the rest of the city meant it benefited most from the occasional respite of sea breeze, and it was not packed with the rest of the city, bursting at the seams with the refugees absorbed from Ferelden and perpetually in the process of ripping out its own throat.

Orsino considered this the _least_ the mages deserved, for tolerating being housed where they were.

The templars, sorry sods, nearly rusted in their armor with the sweat coursing off of them, while the mages lounged about with master-less fans waving near their faces and ice spells cooling their feet. They did not deign to offer these blessings to their captors, and the burning gazes of the templars spoke well to their displeasure over the state of affairs. Orsino spared a passing glance for Knight-Commander Meredith as she went by, damp strands of pale blonde hair stuck to her florid cheeks and neck. She, at least, did not allow herself the weakness of envy as she passed, certainly noticing the heavy silken fan waving adoringly at Orsino, powered by nothing more than a simple spell. _He_ was not bathing in his own sweat, but Meredith would never stoop to admit any discomfort.

A cooler front blew in then, giving all of Kirkwall the chance to gasp in a breath that might not cook their throats before succumbing again to the heat, and Orsino took the chance to give the young mages something to occupy them.

Knight-Commander Meredith was in Ostwick, seeing to templar business, and had left the Order of Kirkwall in the hands of Knight-Captain Cullen. Cullen, a Ferelden recruit, was woefully unprepared to handle the First Enchanter, and he was only halfway aware of this. Having spent the better part of thirty years wrestling with the she-demon herself, Meredith, Orsino did not doubt he could chew this baby-faced whelp up in short order, if necessary.

It was not, for the time being. But he _certainly_ meant to take advantage of Meredith’s absence. It was so _rare_ they had the chance to test their abilities in the field, and Orsino maintained, quite vocally, that boredom amongst the mages was a powerful force driving them into mischief, especially the youth. Give a young person the power of the Fade at their fingertips and no real chance to use it, and no other distractions, and was anyone surprised they got into trouble? With fortified arguments and quick rebuttals, the First Enchanter made neat work of dismissing the Knight-Captain’s protests when he uncovered the invite.

Really, Orsino said, it was such a small thing he hadn’t even thought it worth mentioning. Nothing to trouble the Knight-Captain, who was surely _awfully_ busy in the Knight-Commander’s absence, and wasn’t the Champion among the most trustworthy of the city? It must behoove her to be aware of what the mages could offer in defense of Kirkwall, should it ever—Make forbid!—be necessary!

And never mind that Hawke had been lying on his office floor just three days earlier, leeching whatever coolness she could get out of the stones while he _tried_ to attend his paperwork. Surely it was not necessary for so _much_ of her skin to be in contact with the stone for her to cool off.

Hawke, bless her, arrived at the Circle with that cocky grin hitched on her face, the wolfish gleam in her eyes, her tongue a razor, her fingers fire. Power was leashed in her like magic in a sarebaas, and Orsino could not take his eyes from her any more than one could look away from a hurricane.

The Champion was great, and terrible, and woe on those who made the mistake of crossing her path.

“I heard there were some apprentices here who wanted training,” she announced to the courtyard. “Who’s up first?”

“Oh, come now, Champion,” Orsino drawled, rising from his seat along the courtyard wall. “It wouldn’t be _fair_ if it were one-on-one. How many can you fight at once?” Behind him gathered several senior enchanters, and a small crowd of apprentices and mages had come together to watch. Few had had the chance to see the Champion in action—most who had were dead by the Qunari.

“How many have you got?” Hawke’s lips parted, showing her teeth, and Orsino thought of a rendering of a jackal he had seen in a library textbook on foreign wildlife. He recalled the feeling of those teeth at his throat, and suppressed a shudder, his heartbeat quickening.

He waved a hand over the assembled apprentices who had jumped—or, in some cases, shuffled—at his invitation to spar with the Champion of Kirkwall.

“Be gentle with them, Champion,” he advised her sternly. “Exercise only.” The look the Champion gave was not reassuring, but he would be there, with the senior enchanters, in case intervention was necessary. It wasn’t something he counted on, but Hawke could be…well, some things were never tamed, and even a pet wyvern could be dangerous.

Half a dozen apprentices—still working toward their Harrowings—challenged Hawke. The blades she wielded against them were blunted for practice, but the First Enchanter kept an eye out all the same, occasionally flicking his hand to divert a knife from an apprentice’s ear, or call encouragement to them.

“I still don’t know about this,” Senior Enchanter Draughn murmured in his low, whispering voice. “The Champion isn’t to be trifled with.”

“She won’t hurt them,” Orsino said, hoping that Hawke did not hurt them, “and we’re here if anything does go amiss.”

“Besides, aren’t you curious?” Wei asked, not a drop of effort put into pretending to read the book open on his lap. “None of the rest of us got to see the Champion fight in the viscount’s keep!” Draughn did not add anything, but folded his arms and leaned against a column, frowning as Hawke dodged artfully beneath a freezing spell and rolled around to drive her elbow into an apprentice’s back, taking the girl to her knees.

“I think it’s about time they got some exercise,” Asha opined. “Books and exams are all well and good, but they’re young! They need to stretch their legs! Let them feel a bit sore!” A quick glance at his old friend and Orsino could catch the excitement sparkling in her dark eyes—Asha was just as keen as Wei to see of what the Champion was capable. Rumors and tales abounded in the Circle—but they _saw_ so little.

“I agree,” he said pleasantly, waving his fingers at the ongoing skirmish to guide one of Hawke’s knives away from the walkway and the observers. “It will be nice for them to have the chance to physically exert themselves for once.”

“You’re forgetting Isaac’s exercise courses, Orsino,” Wei said, a grin tugging at his lips.

“Isaac forges Isaac’s exercise courses,” Orsino replied, shaking his head. “Surely amongst all of you you can find someone _younger_ than I to try to hone our mages.” At once, none of them were meeting his sharp gaze, as chastised as the apprentices slinking off to the edges of the courtyard after deciding they had taken enough of a beating from Hawke. Old Isaac, who was as like to forget that Maric was no longer king of Ferelden as to come up with anything remotely invigorating for the biweekly courses, had not come down from the tower to observe the day’s efforts. The failings of his senior enchanters aside, the plan seemed to be going quite well.

For Hawke, anyway. With the floor cleared of any more willing victims to her constrained brutality, she turned her attention to the First Enchanter.

“A nice treat, First Enchanter,” she called, spreading her feet in a solid stance. “I feel I almost broke a sweat! But surely, after I came all the way out here, you could give me something of a challenge?” The brilliant sparks in her eyes were captivating and it took all the First Enchanter’s focus to respond and not give into simply mooning at her. In her form, combat became a dance, deadly and wild, vicious and sublime—on the field, the battle was _hers._

“Well?” He turned an indolent look to the assembled mages. “I won’t restrict this to apprentices alone. Surely one of you would like to spar with the Champion of Kirkwall!” After throwing his mages to the lion, Orsino sat back to watch. Hawke turned her predatory gaze on the mages, through whom a collective shudder passed. She was _enjoying_ being treated like a bear to be baited. He would tease her about that later.

A few bold mages stepped forward, satisfying Orsino that Hawke would entertain them all a while longer. She had been sure-footed with the apprentices, but dulled her talents, as he had requested. There was no glory in beating a teenager, but she could thrill them with the very knowledge they had traded blows with the famed Theodora Hawke, Champion of Kirkwall.

With the mages, however, that restraint was all but evaporated. For adults who had secured their place in the tower, triumphed over their demons, Hawke had none of the reservations kept for the apprentices. If the senior enchanters kept talking, Orsino was not aware of the words that passed between them. He had not seen Hawke fight since that terrible night the Arishok’s temper finally broke, and while he knew the woman was a weapon personified, it was another thing entirely to see it. He rose from his bench to watch her as she spun and leaped and hurled daggers like bolts of lightning. Orsino prided himself on his well-trained mages, but Hawke dodged their spells like she had been doing it all her life, seeming to carouse across the makeshift battlefield with the same devil-may-care look she wore off it. Yet her movements were all tightly controlled, expending no more energy than strictly necessary, executed sharply and with much practice.

Her laugh rang out around the stone courtyard, enthralling them all in the Champion’s own Fade-less spell.

“Oh, nice shot!” If she meant to praise or taunt, he could not say.

Behind him, the senior enchanters continued to whisper amongst themselves.

Hawke did not get by without injury—the apprentices had knocked her about and one of the mages brought down a Fist of the Maker upon her that he was sure would keep her down. Or at least, if it had been anyone else but her, he would have been sure. When Hawke peeled herself off the courtyard floor to keep fighting, it seemed only natural.

When at last she had cleared the floor again, she was not as fresh as before, but she was just as glib. Sweat gleaned off her forehead, gathering at the pulse point of her throat, and he could see from the way she stretched it bothered her elsewhere. The rise and fall of her breast was rapid, she was panting, but she flashed that wolfish look at him as if she were fresh on the field. He had expected her to be tired after two extended bouts of sparring, but rather than worn down, Hawke seemed _energized_ , invigorated, as if they only fed into her boundless well of energy by drawing her into combat. Like a rabid dog, he half-expected her to see her lick her lips before raising her weapon again.

 _Now_ he was aware of the sniggering behind him.

“I think the First Enchanter needs to sit down a moment,” Asha teased. He ought to say something to her, but could she _blame_ him? Had she somehow failed to see how Hawke had whirled about the courtyard like a deadly hurricane of knives and devilish laughter? The temperature of the courtyard hardly knew what to be, with all the nature spells that had been flying around, but Orsino sweltered as the city had been doing the last month.

“That was…impressive, Champion,” he said slowly.

“That was almost worth my time,” she boasted, turning a dagger about in one hand. “Come on, First Enchanter. Why not come over and give me a _real_ challenge?” As she stalked around in half-circles, she locked her eyes with his, the look almost impossible to parse from the one she gave him when she started pulling off his robes. One hand still turning her dagger, her breathing gradually returning to normal. She must feel overheated as well, warm to the touch, sweat forming a slick veil over her skin.

“I wouldn’t want to injure the Champion,” he heard himself say, and pulled back to the reality of the moment, forcing his head to clear. Allow Hawke to beat him in witty banter in his own Circle? In front of his mages? Impossible!

Hawke’s barking laughter sounded out again and that grin split her face from ear to ear, the cunning jester dancing so merrily for the court the king overlooked the mockery in her words.

“First Enchanter, if you can injure me, I’ll give you the pick of my jewels,” she said.

“You are confident today, Champion,” he said, drawing his staff from its holster. With a wave of his hand, the quill-sized piece expanded into the full-sized Staff of Violation, the hand-carved, three-headed weapon of choice for Kirkwall’s First Enchanter. “Have you not heard of quitting while you’re ahead?”

“That’s what I told the Arishok,” Hawke bragged, shifting her step to align with his, drawing him into her pacing so that they moved together, in sync, in the same circle, a slow chase. Breathless, the apprentices, mages, and enchanters alike stilled along the edges of the courtyard, watching as the First Enchanter succumbed to the pull of the Champion’s will.

“I almost pity the man,” Orsino said, feeling the weight of his staff in his hand, the faint undulations of the wood.

“No more than I pity his guard,” Hawke countered, showing her fangs. “A shame your apprentices didn’t see that, First Enchanter! They might pay more attention in class.”

“A shame I should need the threat of balls of fire to make them pay attention,” he returned. The staff began to glow as he summoned his power.

“Oh, I doubt you do, but let’s give them a show anyway, shall we?” She saw him release the spell just before he did it, and the ball of fire struck the ground where Hawke’s feet had been moments before. Not that he hadn’t given her plenty of warning—incapacitating Hawke was not to his advantage in the long run. “Come now, First Enchanter, I said a _show!_ ”

Then he saw that Hawke had retained some measure of restraint against the mages, perhaps out of respect for the Circle, or acknowledgement that this was a mere training exercise. Or perhaps she simply had not put the effort into it that she did now, for she showed none of that temperance with him. If her blades had not been dulled, if he had not been as practiced as he was with magic, she surely would have gutted him! Orsino’s age and craftiness gave him an edge, but it was an edge he clung to to keep pace with Hawke. Strength was not her game—neither of them would ever win a battle that way. But her speed—he felt like a child’s pinwheel just trying to keep her in his view.

The Champion was on her toes to stay ahead, and this gave him renewed energy. The tail end of his spells caught her more than once—and one slammed into her head-on, throwing her back into a column. He paused, and that was his mistake—he should have known better than to think even now that such a slight battering was enough to keep Hawke down. She nearly took off the tip of his ear—if he had turned away a bit slower, “flat ear” might have been a more apt epithet.

“Getting tired, Champion?” he asked, giving her a moment to get to her feet.

“Were you hoping?” With a wave of his hand, he sent the knife flying back to her. She caught it and twirled it in her hand. “Tsk. No need to be _chivalrous_ , First Enchanter.”

“Perhaps I’m only booking a bit of mercy, in case you should be in a position to return the favor,” he said.

“Oh, you should know me better than that,” she replied. “If it’s mercy you seek, talk to the Chanty sisters.”

“If it was mercy I was looking for, I would not have invited _you_ here.” Hawke was wearing down—he could see how she conserved her movements even more tightly than before, jealously guarding every remaining drop of energy. If he had taken her on fresh, could he have beat her? And didn’t he already know the answer to that?

“Fair enough!” A quick shield protected his face from meeting an unfortunate end, courtesy of one of Hawke’s blades, and the time for talk was done.

The real danger was when Hawke got in close. At a distance, he had the clear advantage. Hawke could hit the bulls-eye of a target with a glance at fifty paces, but even that was little defense against the concentrated attentions of a strong mage. Up close, his staff was next to useless, and Hawke could dart so quickly in and out of his field of vision it was impossible to keep her hands in view. Naturally, she made every effort to stay within a three-foot radius of him—or less.

Once, she nearly had him. Behind, with the blessedly dull tip of one of those knives against the artery in his throat—she was showing off, not being practical, and he couldn’t fault her for it. Had he not done the same from the get-go?

“You seem tense, O,” she breathed, too low for their audience to hear. In his ear, her breath was ragged, but her tone gave no sign of wearying of their game. Her lips nearly brushed his ear and her free hand grasped the sash at his hip, her fingers like a searing brand.

“And you look like you could use a hand up,” he said. He gave her just a moment to be confused before lashing out with a blast that knocked her back at the same time he used his staff to force her hand away from his throat, to get that knife off the very vulnerable pulse of his blood.

“Well-played,” Hawke replied, grinning as she caught herself on the courtyard floor. There was blood on her lip and for the first time, Orsino considered he was allowing Hawke to push herself too hard.

“Is it getting hot out here, or is that just me?” Enchanter Marilyn leaned over Asha’s shoulder, pulling at the collar of her robes.

“It’s not you,” Asha replied, watching the Champion struggle to break free of a restrictive spell in time to avoid a Cone of Cold.

Orsino managed to catch her against one of the pillars, fighting to free her arms from his spell, out of breath but no less exhilarated than she had been. She writhed against the force of his magic, twisting like some wild thing caught in a trap, but the amusement never left her eyes. The game, the game—all life was a game to the Champion. Or at least, this was what she cared for the rest of the world to think of her.

“You put up quite a fight, Champion,” he said as he approached. Her struggling began to die down until she slouched back against the pillar. “I am duly impressed.” Only barely did he have to lift his eyes to meet hers—they were nearly of a height, despite her human blood. Once he met them, though, she held him fast.

“You think I’m out of tricks,” she said. He did not touch her but he fancied he could feel the heat coming off her, and that faint, tired smile on her face drew him as a moth to flame.

“It does seem that way,” he said, waving a hand over her.

“Wouldn’t that be a shame?” She jerked upwards, making him realize he had loosened control of the spell, and for a terrifying second he thought she meant to kiss him. She came within a finger’s breadth of doing it, then ducked under his arm and helped herself to the staff from his incautious grip.

“That seems rather underhanded, Champion,” he exclaimed as he turned, unable to keep the offended tone from his voice. The staff swept over his head, just near enough to point out how she might have cracked it against his temple and, magic or no, dropped him quite cleanly to the floor.

“Playing fair doesn’t win fights, First Enchanter,” she crowed, prancing away. “This is a nice staff.” She twirled it in her hand, feeling the heft. “Good weight.” Tossing it and catching it in her hand. “Feels strong. Solid. Quite finely crafted too, it seems. A weapon to be proud of.” The slant of her eyes and the way she rubbed her hand along the shaft was intended to draw a flush to his face, but he was accustomed by then to her come-ons and double-entendres, and would not give her the pleasure in front of the other mages. Certainly not when she made such a paltry effort. They _must_ have worn her out. “Is this elven?”

“Parts of the design,” he said, folding his arms. Hawke was just playing now—he guessed she was too tired to keep up their fight in earnest, and he was in agreement on that. Even at her age he didn’t think he had possessed so much vitality. “I see your lip is bleeding,” he pointed out. “When will you be by with the Hawke fortune so I may make my selection of your jewels?”

Puzzlement pulled at her lips for a moment and then, recalling her earlier taunting, she laughed.

“At my earliest available opportunity, First Enchanter,” she said. “A nice ruby would complement your robes well, if I can make a suggestion. But emeralds or diamonds would match your eyes better.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when I choose,” he said, holding his position as Hawke ambled around the courtyard. “The Champion is now a dispenser of fashion advice. The nobility of Kirkwall will thrill to hear it.”

“Hardly, they’ve seen my sense of fashion. Well, I assume you want this back.” Returning to his radius, she held the staff out with a slight bow. “You honor me with the fight, First Enchanter,” she said nobly. “The Circle of Kirkwall is in good hands. The city should be well-pleased.” It was Hawke’s habit to parade about like an idiot, but the woman was no fool—she knew how her reputation could temper his own, as well as how his could stain hers. But she offered him this, publicly, even if she would not denounce the Knight-Commander. It was something.

“The honor is mine, Champion,” he said, taking the staff from her. “The Circle is stronger for your help, ready to aid in Kirkwall’s defense, should it ever again be necessary.”

“Maker hope it should never come to pass.” Up close—not frantically trying to keep her hands away from his vitals—he could see bruises beginning to blossom on her face and blood seeping into her collar from a cut somewhere on her shoulder. He wondered if she would let him heal it for her, or if she would go first to her apostate friend. She had never mentioned the man was a mage, but she told enough stories for Orsino to put the pieces together—somewhere among her friends was a mage with some healing talent.

“Indeed. Thank you for your time, Champion.”

“Thank you for the invitation, First Enchanter.” With a flourishing wave of her hand, she dropped into a true bow. “Perhaps we’ll get to play together again sometime.”

“That will be at the Knight-Commander’s discretion,” he advised.

“Of course.” To his relief, she did not offer protest. As entertaining as he found Hawke’s jabs at Meredith, to needlessly antagonize her in public was…inadvisable. Pressing Meredith—even trying to back her into a corner—was not something Orsino shied from, but he did not wish to appear unreasonable, whatever the rest of Kirkwall thought of his efforts. “Until next time.”

“Enchanter Chihiro will see you to the Gallows,” he said, gesturing at the aforementioned enchanter, who quickly moved to the Champion’s side. “Good day, Serah Hawke. Get some rest.”

“And you, First Enchanter,” she answered, flashing him a look that nearly brought a _sigh_ to his lips. With that, she spun on her heel and flounced past the crowd, disappearing down one of the Circle halls and leaving Orsino debating whether it was worth it to try to sneak into the city unaccompanied. At the very least, he’d leave his window unlocked.

**Author's Note:**

> You better bet next time they got together it was a TIME.
> 
> On [tumblr](https://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/189945450985/private-lessons-with-the-champion) | On [Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/1008580)
> 
> If you liked this, you might also like [The Illusion of Hope](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11678709) by heylifeitsemily!


End file.
